


Meddling Ki—Ethereal And Occult Beings

by Emperor_Quarter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, Humor, Implied Relationships, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Omnipotence, Other, Post-Canon, azi and crowley are hopelessly lost, death is an awkward emo tax dad, horsepeople are chaotic kids pretending to be mature, i’m kidding really it’s pretty cracky, pollution has the others wrapped around their finger, slight crack, that likes a dramatic entrance every now and then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emperor_Quarter/pseuds/Emperor_Quarter
Summary: The Four just wanted a nice and friendly get-together at a restaurant (perhaps Pollution wanted to hassle Death into learning twenty-first century tech, but hey, it’s a secret) and happened to pick the very same a certain angel and demon were dining at.Of course, this doesn’t end well.





	Meddling Ki—Ethereal And Occult Beings

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty biased towards Pollution so sorry that shows through this a bit.
> 
> Oof this is a bit of Gaiman/Pratchett influence and a lot of my general “wtf writing style” enjoy.

It was a simple get-together. To catch up. After the failed Ride the Four realized they really should spend more time together, and work drifted them apart. (Pestilence turned down the offer, to busy with his next batch of food poisoning.)

So, to the wishes of Famine, they picked a fancy restaurant where the prices were high and the portions were low. In fact, the wine probably had more nutritional value than the food.

Famine arrived first, already being in England at the time. He pulled the cuffs of his sleeves and tugged down his collar.

He walked in, and the lady did very well to hide her surprise. “Mr. Sable, table for four?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Famine replied, giving her a nice fake smile. He settled down in the seat and waited, looking over the menu. He gave another smile to the waiter and ordered some drinks. A champagne, one red wine, a glass of sprite, and a black tea.

Death decided to appear then, pulling into this plane with a bit of sparkle before settling down in the chair. Crows screamed and thunder cracked outside, the light flickering for a moment. Instead of a large cloak, Death now wore a suit that seemed eerie, like it was the mist in a haunted house. There were no gloves on Azrael’s hands, finally succumbing to the others making a hassle on wearing a flesh disguise. Well, mostly. The waiter nearby was about to say something about the hat that covered Death’s face but collapsed before he could get the words out.

Famine prided himself as not even flinching.

GOOD EVENING.

“I never understand why you love dramatic entrances so much,” Famine replied flatly, “and the others aren’t even here yet.”

WELL, IT WAS MUCH MORE SPECTACULAR THAN MY LAST ONE. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU WOULD APPEAR AS YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THERE. IT IS BORING.

The other rolled his eyes, and a timid waiter gave them their drinks. Famine swirled his champagne. Drinking things was fine for him, he even remembered the time when he ate every now and then. (You see, Pestilence tricked him into eating grilled rat in the 1600s. Famine never touched food again.) He picked up the glass and took a sip, not batting an eyelash as it burned down his throat. Why humans drank this, he didn’t know. But it was extremely expensive and probably terrible for them, which satisfied him enough.

“I _swear_ if you don’t wash your hands right now I will discorporate you!” Oh, Famine knew that voice. The only one that would actually go through with discorperating (it was less paperwork and more pain for a Horseperson, unfortunately.)

The two watched, amused, as War dragged Pollution in, making sure none of the humans heard her screeching that. 

Pollution whined. “No! They’re not that dirty!”

“I can see the filth on them, Polly, nobody wants to smell you a mile away. You still got plastic and paving and deforestation and styrofoam, do you really need to smell so bad?” War yelled angrily. “We’re going to the bathrooms and you’re cleaning your hands!”

There was a tug-of-war as Pollution tried to pull away, screaming bloody murder. War growled, eyes alighted as she grabbed Pollution by their collar and dragged them towards the washrooms. Famine got up, interested in following the conversation.

“I’m not going in the stupid human’s unnecessarily gendered bathrooms!” Pollution argued, and War rolled her eyes. 

“Make your own damn bathroom, you omnipotent trash bag,” she paused, shaking her head, “actually that’s not a good idea.”

And so, another bathroom appeared beside the two, with a biohazard sign on it.

War yanked Pollution inside and forced their hands under the water and Pollution _screamed_. “You big baby,” War hissed, and added soap. 

It took about thirty minutes (not really, Death froze time because the tea would get cold) and finally War deemed Pollution’s hands clean enough. She then transformed Pollution’s soiled wear into a crisp white suit with diamonds lightly lacing the lapels. They whined, and War rose a finger. “Not another sound or I’m giving you stilettos.”

War walked gracefully back outside, her outfit morphing into a beautiful red dress with a sweetheart neckline that hugged all her curves. Long red gloves with red lacing at the end accents her hands, and if Famine looks closely there are some rubies on the neckline.

Everyone in the room stares, and a waitress and waiter in the back start fighting while others are frozen in awe. War blows a kiss to an unsuspecting waiter and he turns and runs out red-faced. 

She settled down in the both next to Death, leaning over to kiss Famine on the cheek and pulled back. Pollution nuzzled into Famine’s side, sticking their tongue out at the Red rider.

Death gave the empathic version of “are we done yet?” which consisted of exasperated feelings and a metaphysical flick to their beings. 

A crack sound resonated as War rolled her neck. “We’re all done for now, don’t worry.”

She waved over a server, beginning their orders. Famine simply smiled and shook his head, Pollution ordered the biggest (and most expensive) thing on the menu, War basically skimmed her finger over the menu and ordered whatever her finger landed on, and Death stared down the waitress with glowing eyes until she ran away, frightened.

YOU KNOW, NOBODY REALLY SERVES RAT ANYMORE, Death commented, giving the equivalent of a smug smirk.

Famine scowled. “Pot calling the kettle black?”

Pollution was too busy trying to pull off their heels, and War rolled her eyes once more. “Please, they’re only two inches, forget it.” She kicked out her six-inch heels, and twitched a finger so they sparkles in the sunlight.

“But they’re death traps!” Pollution grumbled. 

Famine placed a hand on their shoulder. “They’re two inches, my shoes are one and a half, you’re okay.”

War tossed her hair back with a laugh, effectively wining the argument.

At that, Pollution’s nostrils flared and they turned their head. Death knew what was about to happen before they said it.

“The waitress called me miss.”

Famine and War shot up immediately, fuming. War marched over to said waitress, freezing everyone else in the room, and Famine phased through Pollution to follow.

Death turned, watching Pollution inspect their nails with a smirk. DID SHE REALLY? I WAS NOT PAYING ATTENTION.

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” Pollution replied, but it lost it’s light-hearted-ness so much Death suspected it was true. They leaned back. “But anyway, I won.”

War and Famine settled back down, inhaling deeply. Pollution grinned at Death, tapping their pinky finger. 

Another waiter gave two of four their orders. War gave a knife-toothed grin at him, and he scurried back to his place.

Famine sighed, and War fixed a pout on him. “Raven, dear, I’m just trying to have a bit of fun.”

“Please don’t get rid of all of the waiters,” he replied, turning to Death, “that goes for you too.”

Death’s head tilted, amused. WHAT WAS IT YOU SAID—POT CALLING THE KETTLE BLACK?

Pollution gave a proud look and clapped. Death radiated a bit of happiness at the ability to catch up with 21st century times. 

War was having some duck with different sauces (Famine scowled when he saw the portion, it was larger than he would have liked) and Pollution had a large bowl of a pasta of sort. Both looked very smug at Famine’s disgusted face.

“Someone didn’t really look at the menu,” Pollution singsonged. 

Their only response was a scowl. Pollution grinned. 

A sigh escaped War as she rubbed her face. “Please stop pissing everyone off.”

Pollution smiled. “I’m a Horseman, it’s kinda my job.”

YOU KNOW, PESTILENCE IS MAKING QUITE A COMEBACK, Death noted.

“Uh-uh, no way,” Pollution replied firmly, “he quit. Make it five riders for all I care, he does not get to come back and take my spot.”

Famine laughed at Pollution’s pout. “We’ll make him, the Green Horseman.”

The Four erupted into fits of laughter, which made the other guests stare.

Particularly, two guests that had “miraculously” snagged a seat-for-two just early.

HERE COMES TROUBLE, Death gritted out, turning the other’s attention towards the two customers. CAN’T HAVE A NICE DINNER THESE DAYS.

Everyone in the room seemed to freeze except them and the two. The darker-clothed one stood up.

“What’s their names again?” Famine whispered.

War picked at her nails. “I think the attractive one’s Crowley. Dunno about the pansy.” Famine quietly chided her about her language. 

AZIRAPHALE, Death said suddenly, then paused, as the darker haired one scowled.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I’m assssuming you’re here for another Ride?”

HE HISSES, Death said, disgruntled. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands together. “It’s terribly rude, you know, to suddenly end a world with billions of life forms on it.”

Suddenly, they were outside the restaurant. Two sets of wings flared up as Crowley and Aziraphale’s true form started leaking out.

“I’ll call Adam,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded.

A sword materialized in War’s hand. “I don’t care what you think but I’m totally pissed, I didn’t even get to finish my duck! It was actually good!” 

Crowley tsked—well, it was more of an oh well—and suddenly a car pulled up with a teenage Antichrist inside.

After the Not-Armageddon, it was apparent that Adam Young lost his powers. This was not the case however, it just took a lot of it to rid of the Horsepeople and disincorporating Satan and reboot the world. After a few years however, he had quickly mustered his strength back up.

Now, the Antichrist was eighteen years old and driving around in his father’s car (that somehow, still worked as well as Crowley’s Bentley) and one of the most powerful beings in the world. The most powerful above him being Death and God, respectively.

Adam glared very throughly at the Four. The other three (which none of the Four bothered to remember the names of) were right behind him.

The girl was very much glowering, and if she had any more grasp of power her eyes were glowing. War winced as an old bruise surfaced.

The one with glasses sneered, eyes full of hate and hands twitching. Famine flinched away from the boy, memories of banishment rising.

The messy one grumbled, muttering insults under his breath, muscles clenched. Pollution whimpered, every pain from that day present.

“I thought we got rid of you,” the one with the glasses accused. 

“Could’ve said the same about you,” Famine grumbled under his breath, “annoying brats.”

War cracked her knuckles. “You know, we really should have called Pest in here, he would have laughed his ass off.”

“No sense bringing him into a fight that isn’t his,” Pollution shrugged.

The girl—Pepper, was it?—started forward with a large blow to War. 

Normally, such thing would not even faze the personification, but backed by Adam’s power, it hurt. 

War wheezed. “Oh, good one kid. Probably shouldn’t have had bones,” she gasped, waving a hand to realign the broken bones. “That one was good.”

There were arms around Famine’s neck all of a sudden—Wesley? He thinks that was it—and the boy yanked him down. “They’ve probably been taking karate or something,” he laughed. Flicking a wrist, he gained a few feet between himself and the other.

Pollution’s eyes narrowed at their counterpart. Bailey? Brett? Something-with-a-B immediately charged, flicking out a pocketknife. Pollution yelped. “Or been mugging people!” 

Adam was in a sort of stare-down with Death. Their powers were just nearly equal, and if the Antichrist tried hard enough could probably bring down the other. 

Suddenly, it stopped. Adam’s voice rang out.

”WAIT!”

Famine touched the bruises that were already beginning to form. He hissed. It wasn’t just a blow to the body, but him as well. Ouch.

Pollution gauzed a jab wound. “Brats,” they muttered, “however did they let children have knives and let them use them?” They glared a War.

War shrugged. “They have to defend themselves somehow. Why not?”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “You’re just going to stand there like—like, oh whatever. You’re not going to attack us?”

I THINK, Death interrupted, THE WORD YOU WERE LOOKING FOR WAS “IDIOTS”.

“Um, says the one who doesn’t know what a LED light is,” Famine chimed in.

Pollution snarled. “ _I_ taught you what that was!”

War groaned. “I taught you all how to fly a fighter jet.”

“And _I_ taught you how to drive a car! Seriously, you three are so old fashioned!” Pollution snapped.

Famine placed an arm on their head. “Yes, we know you’re a baby, you don’t have to remind us.”

Aziraphale and Crowley were quite lost, at this point. Even Adam Young was looking a bit puzzled.

“So, you haven’t come to attack or cause the End?” Aziraphale asked, looking very perturbed.

War gave a groan. “Of course not, did you not just hear me complaining about my duck? It was very good, and very large to piss off my _associate_.”

“Oh so I’m just an associate now,” Famine snapped angrily.

DO ETHEREAL AND OCCULT BEINGS NOT GO ON OUTINGS? Death asked, a layer of confusion in the mind-speak.

Crowley made a face. “No, they don’t really. Which is annoying. They don’t know anything about Earth and want to end it.”

“Gabriel thought a classical book was a...pornography,” Aziraphale whispered, red-faced.

Death was about to ask what that was as Famine cleared his throat. “Well okay then, angels and demons are pricks that don’t get out much.”

Pollution opened their mouth, but War, still petty, silenced them. “Hush child, the adults are talking.”

“So, you aren’t here to destroy us?” Ah! Brian! That was the irritating brats name—yes! “And um, that was my whittling knife, sorry.” Pollution glared, and the boy cowered back a bit.

An exaggerated sigh erupted from Famine. “Why would we want to end the world if it ends us? No more humans, no more us. Easy logic. No, it’s our job and gratefully, it hasn’t come about yet. Good _day_.”

 

 

The Four found themselves back at the table of the Ritz, their meals miraculously not cold. 

Famine swirled his champagne, which was not full when he left it.

Pollution sighed irately, Famine patted them on the head. 

War kicked up her heels on the table, watching as two customers fought in the restaurant while finishing her duck.

And Death? Well, Death was very silent as he had just found out what pornography was.


End file.
